THE SADDEST MAN IN THE WORLDHe stood up on the trainand looked around,collecting everybody’s attention.After a few moments he shouted,“I might just be the saddest person on the planet right now.”We all stared at him,wondering about his next move.Nothing happened for a minutebut then some other guya few seats down stood up,looked at the first man and yelled,“that’s bullshit! I’m the saddest man in the world right now. I’m so down, I’m underneath the earth!”“no, no!” screamed the woman next to him.“your sadness is a speck of sand compared to mine. My sadness is a whole ocean’s beaches!”I didn’t know how long it would go onbut I knew it had gone on long enough.So I took my standand looked ‘em all over.“well,” I said,“I don’t know much, but from the sound of it you’re all pretty fuckin’ miserable.”

IT WASN’T MUCH BUT IT WAS SOMETHINGThere was this one spotI waited for five hoursand only got a few laughsand a few thumbs ups.Those always pissed me off,getting those thumbs ups.Finally this guy pulled overand rolled down the window.“where ya headed, mate?” he asked me.“as far north as you can take me,” I said.“well, I’m just going a k up the road,but I’ll take you that far.”I gave it some thought.That would be just over half a milein five hours.And I had a whole, entire continentto cover,maybe four or five thousand kilometers.The guy squinted his eyes and said,“it ain’t much, but it’s something.”That was true.It wasn’t much, but it was something.

MORE THOUGHTS FROM THE SIDES OF THE ROADSSitting there,on the sides of those roads,my filthy clothesand my unshaven faceand just a general lookof being abused by life,I had the feelingthat when people drove by me,the thoughts that came into their headswould be something along the lines of,“oh, that would suck.”

IT WASN'T THE AVERAGE RIDE FROM THE AVERAGE MANAs we drove along north from Perth,Through the desert in the dark,With no houses or towns around,he told me abouthis very extensive criminal history.He’d stolen over a thousand cars,(including the one we were driving in),pushed millions and millionsof dollars worth of meth,shot two men,one to death,had beaten and tortured countless others,and he was currently wantedin Australia and New Zealand.But the best thing he’d done,In his point of view,was burning down the houseof a cop who’d roughed him upwhen he’d gotten arrested once.He had used Malatov cocktailsand right after doing that,he’d jumped on a plane and had flownover to Australia,where he’d been living on the lam ever since.He said to me, regarding the the cop’s house,“I really, really enjoyed doing that.”I turned over and looked at him,and just had that feelingthat he was a very bad human being.

DECISIONSThere are a lot of decisions in life,that’s for goddamn sure.One that comes up a little too often for mehappens when I’m rushing into a public bathroom.I always have a hard time decidingwhether to put toilet paper on the seator risk shitting my pants.

INTERPRETING SLANGHe put his drink down onto the bar,looked over at me,right into my eyes, and he said,“I’ve had birds before.”“nice,” I said,wondering whether he meant women or actual birds.“one died, and the other four got away.”“oh,” I replied,secretly still wondering.

HE WAS HOOKIEIt was just past two in the afternoon.He came up to me and put his hand out and said,“I’m Hookie.”I knew he was.He’d already told me twice that morning.Then he leaned in and whispered to me,“I’m not a racist. I hate everybody the same.”

HE TOLD ME WHAT WAS ON HIS MINDI’d met Hookie earlier that morning,in the bar.We’d been nipping at pints of beer.After a big gulp he turned to meand said, very seriously,“now Jack, at some point later on today I’m probably gonna try to kill you.”I gazed back at him a few moments.His gray hair, skinny arms, missing teeth.I raised my glass and said,“I figured you would.”

THE STRANGE QUESTIONI’d been sitting there maybe an hour,enjoying a few beersand letting the time go by.Minding my own business,Doing my thing.A man at the other end of the bar got up,put on his coat and looked over at me.“you’re not gonna commit suicide, are you?”I gave it some thought.It was a weird way to start a conversation,Especially since he seemed to be on his way out.Finally I glanced back to him and said,“what’s it to you?”

FULL MOONI was walking down the street,smoking a cigarette and whistling Dixie,having a good feelingabout where the night might go.But then I had this other feeling,like somebody was spying on me,watching my every move.Very cautiously and very slowlyI glanced up into the sky.There was the full moon, boring down.I quickly averted my eyes,ducked into some shadows and said, “oh shit. Here we go again.”

ANGELO VELLAIt was nice to think about Angelo.Very comforting to me,to know that he was out there,smoking his brains out every night,waking in the morning,filling his thermos with wine,and going off to his welding job.Somehow it seemed that his little life,his effort, made the world a better place.

DAY SLEEPERSAnytime I saw somebody sleeping during the day,or napping as you people call it,I’d stop and glare at them a while,try to get right in there,right into their dreams and say,“you fuckin’ bastard.”It always pissed me offto see people sleeping during the day,because I had such a hard time at it.

THEY BEAT HIS ASS AND STOLE HIS SHOESI was riding in her car,north, up to Perth.We’d talked about this and that,bullshit mostly.Then she turned to me and said,“I have a friend. A really, really big guy. The abbos beat the shit out of him.” “yeah?” I asked. “yeah, and they stole his shoes. Like, size seventeen, but they stole them anyway.”She turned over to me for a few moments,as though the part about the shoeswas of the utmost importance.I looked away for a minute,then looked back and said, “hmm.”

BUSTED“now,” she said,a very stern look on her face.“what I’m gonna do is save you from paying a fifty dollar fine.”I looked back at her,at her badgeand her leather faceand that long nose.Then I looked around for a way outbut soon decided I was too tired to run.I’d been nabbed,no way around it.I turned away for a moment,then back.“all right,” I sighed,taking out my cardboard walletto pay for the train fare.After giving her a good, hard look I said,“let’s do this.”

WITH HOPE IN ONE HAND AND A BOTTLE IN THE OTHERThere I was, on the beach.Nipping at some whiskey and taking it easy.This woman walked up,looked me over,maybe checking out my tattoos.She had on a pair of khaki shortsand a golf shirt and a pair of tennis shoes.She was the western world’s patron mother.After giving me a good long lookshe frowned and said to me,“I hope you have on sunblock.”I squinted back at her,sand in my eyes, and said,“well, I don’t.”

I WAS ALWAYS TERRIBLE WITH WOMENThere weren’t many girls at the beach.None at all, actually.I was lying there in the sand,in my filthy jeans and stained, burned t shirt.Finally this older chick came walking by.She didn’t look too bad.I was desperate for some action,would kill for even a kiss.I thought I’d give it a try with that broad.As she got near I caught her eye and said,“hey, how’s it goin’?”She smiled at me and kept walking.That was it.I watched her walk a little ways down,then laughed to myself, at myself,saying, “dude, you’re such a fuckin’ loser.”

CHOOSING MY WORDS WISELYI’d been sitting out there in that chairfor a while. I mean a fuckin’ while.Maybe fifteen hourswith the odd trip to the pisser.I was nearly finished with a bottle of Jim Beamand was beginning to wonder what I’d dowhen it ran out.People came and went.Some stuck around,smoked cigarettesand talked and laughed.But this one guy,he kept popping his head through the door,looking around the courtyard,sneaking glances at me,then disappearing again.After some timeI realized that he worked there,at that hostel,and that he was maybe worriedthat I’d get out of hand.I guess he’d heard some storiesabout the great American bourbon drinker.That was me.What they called me, anyway.Finally he popped his head through that dooranother time and he looked over at me.I saw him out of the corner of my eye,then turned over to him and roared,“that’s a goddamn lie!”This scared and confused expression came to his face, like he didn’t know what I was talking about.I waited a moment and then shouted,“no! YOU’RE a goddamn lie!”Everyone in the courtyard quieted downand stared at me with worried eyes.Those were the only words I’d spoken all day.

SENTIMENTS OF THE MISERABLEIt was hard to not feellike you were constantly being pushed around.Everywhere you went,every step took,somebody was telling you what to do,what not to do,when to walk,where to go.At times it really pissed me off.

MORE HOBBIES OF THE DOOMEDI liked that,going into the girl’s bathroom,taking a piss and leaving the seat up.I wasn’t quite surewhy I found so much enjoyment from it,but I did.It just seemed like a pretty cool thing to do.

ALONEFor some reason it made them uncomfortable,when I’d sit out there for hours,jesus, days at a time.Drinking that bourbon and scribbling little poems,always alone at my own table,always away from them.“why don’t you come join us?” they’d ask.“Come sit with us!”I’d stare back at them and finally say,“listen, you fuckers. I was in that womb alone and I’m gonna go to that coffin alone, all right? Why the fuck should I do it any differently out here?”

NOT ITI wondered how I’d gotten there,how it had come down to that.I played over her words in my head.She’d said to me,“I found you over therebehind the motorcycle.You were hugging a propane tankand every few moments you’d whisper,‘I swear to god it wasn’t me.’”

EVERY DRINK WAS A LIEIt was nice becauseshe didn’t ask us if we wanted another round.She just brought one over.If we didn’t want another roundthen we’d tell her.That was how it worked.The man I drank with,Peter, was seventy four.He’d been at the drinking game for six decades.We didn’t speak much,just sipped at our drinks.He was on the vodkaand I was a whiskey man.I didn’t trust Peter because of that,because he drank that vodka.I never trusted vodka drinkers.But there was another reasonI didn’t trust him, too.And that was becausein the two years I’d been sitting next to himon that barstool,he’d turn to me just beforefinishing every single drink and say,“after this one I’m gonna kill myself.”But then the barmaid would bring over anotherand he’d start in on it,like he’d said nothing.It was for that reasonI knew he was a lying bastard.

THE SURPRISEAt one point there,I woke up and had to take a shit.I pulled on some pants,thinking maybe I’d go out for a smoke afterwards.But what was weirdwas that while walking down the hallwayI smelled smoke, fire smoke.I sniffed away at itbut couldn’t figure outwhere that smell was coming from.Then I passed a man in the hallway,this dutch man I’d seen around.He said to me,“hey! Man! You’re on fire!”I stared back at him, confused.“no, really?”“yes, yes! Look at your legs!”And true enough,I looked down at my pantsand they were on fire,the flames licking at my knees.“jesus,” I said, jogging to the shower,“I didn’t see that one coming.”

WE SAT AROUND DOING NOTHING AND MAKING RANDOM THREATS“I’ll outdrink you,” he said to me,a mean look in his eyes.“so?”“well, I will.”“whatever.”“no, I WILL outdrink you!” he shouted,mad now.I swallowed a big pull of whiskeyand yelled back,“I’ll drink your fuckin’ face!”

Friday, April 18, 2008

IT WASN’T EASYEach morning I’d wake up,Let the dog out to pee,Make some toast and coffee,Maybe slice up an orange.Then I’d bring my dishes to the sinkTurn on the water to wash them and shout,“GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKIN’ PIECE OF SHIT!!”The water would come out in a small spurt,Then immediately the pressure would die off,And after a minute there would just be a trickle.So with soapy hands I’d spin the knobs again,Opening the valves further.This would happen againUntil somewhere down in the depths of the pump,The pressure decided to wake its ass up and turn on,And then water would just spray out of the faucet,Splashing off the dishes and onto me.“OH!! YOU FUCKIN’ MOTHERFUCKER!!”By the time the pressure had evened out,The hot water would have warmed up to scalding,And soon it’d burn my hands to touch it.“OW!! GODDAMN IT!! WHAT THE FUCK?!”Afterwards, sitting on the sofa,My shirt soaked and my hands burnt, I’d grumble,“why does everything have to be so fuckin’ hard?”

A CALL FROM SEBBEHe called me up late one night,and I was damn glad to hear from him.“hey!” he shouted. “what’s up, MANNN?”“ah, nothin’. I’m in western Australia. Where are you these days?”“I’m in Brisbane. Two more weeks to get to, CANNNNS! I’m just drinking Jaeger nowadays. Jaeger all the time, but now I can’t afford the Red Bull, so I just drink Jaeger!!”“oh, nice-““how’d you get out there, to WESTern Australia?”“I hitch hiked. Spent ten dollars on transportation!”“oh! I spent ten dollars at Subway for dinner!”We both laughed.“so, what are you doing there, in WESTern Australia?”“I’m house sitting. It’s boring as hell, but I’ve got some wine to drink, so it’s okay.”“oh! Okay, okay!”“hey, did Zandra get the job as a lab rat?”“no, no! She used some face cream that had, I don’t know. Had something in it...”“ah, those fuckers. They didn’t like her face cream?! Ho ho! They didn’t like my sleeping pills, either. Ha! Those fuckers!”“yes, those fuckers!”“so, you’ll be in Cairns in a few weeks?”“yes, yes! Will you join me on the Jaeger train?”“I don’t know, man. If I don’t get work here, within a week, I’m goin’ to Perth. If I don’t get work there, then I’m going to start making my way east again.”“okay, okay, so I’ll see you in CANNNS?”“ah, you fucker. I hope so. I need work so bad, but, fuck! I’d much rather meet up with you and drink Jaeger all day and night.”“ah, ha ha. I know, I know. Okay, well...”“I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”“yes. I’ll see you then?”“see you then. Stay crazy!”“you too, MANNN!”“see you later, Sebbe.”“ahhhh hahahaha. Bye!”

ROUTINES OF THE DOOMEDI’m just so sick of the normal.So sick of the routine.What I’ve been doingIsn’t all that routine,For people who haven’t been doing it,But I’m sick of this, too.I want some excitement.I want to be out thereOn the battlefields,Taking lives, or saving them-It doesn’t really matter to me,In the long, long, long run.We’re all just coming and going,Back and forth,Over and over and over again,To and from this earth, this world.So what does it matter to me?I know we’ll never be here forever, And we’ll never be gone for good.

DOWN TIMESThere were so many let-downs,So many disappointments along the way.You wanted to collect them all,Harvest them, even.Sell them like novelty giftsTo the people out therewho didn’t knowWhat sadness really was.

THE HEAVEN THAT BECAME A HELLThere was a red brick patio.It stretched out into a lawn,And below was this splendid view of the vineyardsWhich surrounded the house on three sides.Rose bushes grew out of large wooden pots,Pink and yellow and red.That’s where I’d sit each evening,Watching the sun fall behind a distant sheep field.Sometimes, if I was lucky, I had a bottle.Other times I had a box.I’d look around and sniff the pure air,Listen to the chirps of the birds.Everything was perfectly peaceful,And I considered that place to be a heaven.The days went by.And so did the nights.And soon enough I got tired of that place.I got bored of that heaven,And when you get bored of heavenIt soon becomes hell.I began to count down the days.I began to make plans to move on,To get outta there.“oh, what the hell will I do about this?”I kept asking myself.“will I keep rushing around this world forever, east and west, north and south? Will nothing stop me but death?”I took another hit from the red,And supposed that it was true.

THE FIRST QUESTION OF THE DAYIt was the morningAnd I’d already eaten breakfast.I went outside to twist a few knobs,On the irrigation hoses,As I was instructed to do by the owners.While sneaking carefullythrough the dew-wet busheson one of the garden terraces,the wine cellar man saw me and said,“do you have a problem?”I stopped for a moment,considering the question.He’d said it like he’d asked for a pencil,Like he hoped I would.“what kinda problem do you mean? I’m sure I’ve got one somewhere in here,”I said, reaching into my pockets.He stood there, eyeing me suspiciously,Maybe wondering whyI was creeping around in the garden like that.“why,” I asked him.“do I look like I have a problem?”He gave it a moment.“you look like you might.”I glimpsed down at myself.Nothing seemed too out of order.But there it was.And there I was,having that look about me,not for the first time.I had that lookLike a carpenter would have a hammer.I shrugged and moved along,Spun the knobs on the hoses.It was the beginning of just another dayIn the strange thing that was my life.

THOUGHTS ON STRING CHEESEEach night I’d sit down at the kitchen table,Maybe around nine or ten o’clock.I’d start in with the wineAnd start in with the words.After a little while I’d get hungry,And root around in the fridge or pantryFor something to eat.One night I came out with some rice crackers,A bottle of some burrito simmering sauceAnd a big ball of mozzarella cheese.I made little sandwiches,Popped them into my mouthAnd washed them down with gulps of rotgut.After I’d eaten a few,I stared at the mozzarella and wondered,“what the hell ever happened to string cheese?”I gave it some thoughtAnd figured it was probably still being sold.I probably just hadn’t noticed itIn the past twenty years.“but,” I wondered, “what spurred the idea?”I was very bored at that time,And I’d mentally dissect the stupidest things.“was it accidental? Were the strings of cheese,Like, actually byproducts of balls like this?”I looked over at Monty,This Jack Russell TerrierWho mainly slept all day,Taking a couple shits here and there.She was snoozing, her ears twitching gently.“HEY!” I shouted, startling her,Causing her to pin her ears back and worry.“you’ve never considered that, have you?”I asked her, speaking lower and slower.“you’ve never really thought aboutwho invented string cheese, have you, Monty?”She stared at me for a few moments,then ducked her head back onto her paws.“oh!” I shouted, closing my eyes,putting my head back and roaring,“what the hell do you know, anyway?”

EVEN A LITTLE COULD BE TOO MUCHThe waiter came out with my vegetable casserole,Put it down in front of me.I’d just walked nearly two milesIn the rain from the train station,With a huge pack on my back.I’d only eaten a few bites of breadSince the day before.“oh, boy. This looks good,” I said,Examining the dish.“yess. It’s very goodd,” he said,Staring dumbly at me for a moment, then leaving.I took a few bites and it was very good.There were all sorts of vegetables,In some delicious sauce,And a sprinkling of cheese melted on top.But it needed more cheese.“excuse me,” I said, waving down the waiter.“yess? Iss everything, all rightt?”“yeah, yeah. It’s great. Very good, but could I get some more cheese?”“OH!” he shouted, completely disgusted,Or like a bee had snuck into his pants,And stung him on the ass.“OH! More cheese?! I...I...let me seee!”He stormed off, shaking his head,muttering, “more cheese? MORE cheese?”In a minute he came back with another pinch,sprinkled it on the casserole.After he’d done that he looked down at me,still shaking his head.“more cheese?” he scoffed, before stomping away.“more cheese?! Oh!”I turned and saw a man at another table,A mysterious little smirk on his face.“hmm,” I thought, starting back in on the casserole.“I better watch my ass here.”

HOBBIES OF THE DAMNEDWhen you spent a lot of time alone,like I did,you found little tricks to keep busy.Some people picked up hobbies,reading books or smoking cigarettes or drinking wine.I did all of those, too,but not exclusively.One of my favorite hobbies,Especially when house-sitting in Western Australia,was to take long pisses on the lawn,waving my dick around wildly,so that it mimicked the soundof the sprinkler system,which used to water the big playing fieldat my high school.TSHHT-TSHHT...TSHHT-TSHHT...TSHHT-TSHHT!

I SURE SHOWED HIMThere was this time in my early twenties,I was working for this shitty painting companyWho sold franchises to college students.I’d done all right, made some good money,But that’s only becauseI worked my fuckin’ ass off.Most other kids ended upten or fifteen grand in the hole.But since I was a ‘solid performer,’I got hired on as a General Manager.I’d start in the fall and begin recruiting my men.“whatever,” I said.“I just wanna finish this season strong, Have some money in the bank.”“yeah, yeah,” the VP nodded, that snake bastard.I should have known he had his own plans.The end of the summer cameAnd there was one weekend left.They called it the manager’s weekend.All the franchisees went up to MontrealAnd got drunk and blew the little money they’d made,If they’d made any at all.Most guys weren’t informed of their outstanding billsUntil they’d gone on this trip and posed for pictures.Well, I said to hell with that.I’d calculated that if I went,I’d spent a couple hundred bucks on booze,And another couple hundred on bullshit.Whereas if I stayed,I could spray out my last house myself,Save maybe five hundred dollars on labor costs,And be nearly a grand richer.“no, no, no,” said the VP.“you have to go. I mean, I can’t force you to do anything, You’re not a full time employee until next week, But if you didn’t go, it would...not be good.”We argued back and forth a bit,Him telling me how important it was for me to go,How important it wasfor me to make myself known and respected,As an up and coming General Manager,Especially since some of the rookie managersWould be under my guidance in the following year.Finally I said,“to hell with it! I’ll go. But you’ll see. I’m sure we’ll both regret it!”Well, I went up there to Montreal,To ‘make myself known and respected’By the younger franchisees.But what really happened was this:A good friend of mine came along,(he was another franchisee)And on the first night he dared meTo drink a 144 ounce pitcher of beer at the Peels Pub.Midway through I ran across the dance floor,Puking on franchisees and strangers alike.Later that night I lost my wallet,After spending three hundred dollarsOn who the hell knew what.By the second night I’d made a name for myself,That was for damn sure.My boss called me in during a few quiet moments,To remind me that guys were looking up to me.“oh, yeah,” I said. “That’s cool. I know.”Later on that night I got pissed off.Some chick had stolen my cowboy hat,So I smashed my phone on the sidewalkAnd kicked it into the street,Cheering at cars that ran it over.A few of the younger franchisees looked on,Wondering how I’d gotten a positionas a General ManangerAt last I went back to the hotel,Dragged my friend out of bedAnd commenced a forty minute wrestling bout,Overturning furniture,Smashing picture framesAnd putting big holes in the walls.On the long drive home I did some more calculations.By going up there to Montreal for two nightsI’d come out eight or nine hundred dollars down,From where I would have been if I stayed home,And sprayed out my last house.Never mind the name I’d made for myself.The following weekwhen I had to report in to work as a General Manager,I said to my boss, “I told you.”

THE WIND AT MIDNIGHTThere had been this fierce wind blowing,All night long.Whipping through the trees,Rattling the doors,Making the house go, “creek, creek!”The dog was whimpering,And the lights flickered.Then, all of the sudden,it stopped.I looked around, out the windows.No bushes swayed back and forth,No sound of air whooshed through the leaves.I looked up at the clock on the wall.It was exactly midnight, to the second.“oh, shit,” I gasped. “this might get weird.”

WITH THE IRON BLANKET DRAPED OVER MY BODYI filled up the bath tub,Tip toed in.With baths,The water was always too hot or too cold.There was no just right.As I settled in,Letting my body steep,I figured I hadn’t taken a bathIn seven years.I let the scalding waterSuffocate my tired body.I’d begun exercising again,Push-ups and sit-ups and so on,But the tiredness was from more than that.I was tired from everything,Tired of it all.Not only from travel,Not from endless wild nights,Not from endless nothing nights,But everything.Tired of breathing,Tired of eating.Sleeping just made me yawn.So there in the bath tub,Exhaustion hitting hard,Like an iron blanket being draped over me.I leaned back my head,Stretched out my legs,And said, “well, I’m fuckin’ beat.”

THE HOUSESITTERThe phone rang and I picked it up.As soon as I did I thought,“oh, you fuckin idiot! I told you not to!”But I said, “hello?”“hello,” said a mature voice,Far out there in another world.A world of business and money,Of meetings and important things.Very far away from my world.“is Jenny there?”“uh, no!” I shouted, too loud.“oh. She already left?”I did some thinking,Made some deductions.If this person knew she was going,He must know it all.He must know that Jenny,One of the owners of the house I was sitting,Was taking a trip up to Bali with Craig,The other owner of the house,To elope and have a discreet weddingamongst close friends..“uh, yeah. She left two days ago- no! yesterday!”“do you know how long she was planning on being gone?”“uh, like two weeks- no! a week. Hmm, I don’t really know. I’m not really clued in.”I thought about how bad that sounded.I was this house sitter guy who didn’t really knowWho it was I was house sitting for,When they’d left,Or how long they’d be away.I was most likely a burglar,For all this poor bastard knew.“oh, hmm. She told me she’d give me a call before she left.”I waited a few moments, hoping he’d continue,But he didn’t.“uh...yeah...well, you know, women. They say they’ll do things, Then they get caught up with picking out shoes, Dresses, that kinda stuff. All that bullsh-tuff...”“shtuff?” I thought to myself. “bull shtuff?”“you must be the person taking care of the house?”I thought about it for a moment.I’d been tearing through a box of cheap wine,And my brain was feeling the rotgut repercussions.“uh, yeah. I am. I’m taking care of... Monty...too. The dog.”I could feel the conversation heading south.It occurred to me I had no idea who this man was,He had no idea who I was,And nothing important was getting exchanged.I was about to hang up,Blame it on a bad connection,But then I remembered I was speaking on a land line.“all right, well, can you take a message?” he asked.I looked around for a pen and paper.Then a pen or paper.A pen to write a message on my arm,Paper to scratch a note into with my fingernail.Neither presented themselves.“um...”“just tell her this,” he said.“okay.”I closed my eyes,as though the memory system workedbetter with closed eyes.“tell her to call her father when she gets back.”“oh, jesus!” I blurted,Trying to recover with a fake cough.“excuse me?”“uh, what was that? call her dad? When she gets back?”If you’re not sure about something,always answer a question with a question.“yes,” he said, very slowly. “you got that?”I couldn’t help it.I began to laugh.The wine, the conversation, no!It was the fact that some schmuck like me,Some fool who’d lucked his wayinto a house-sitting gig,In the middle of paradise,Knew that this Jen chick was up in Bali,About to get married in a few days,While her poor father,The man who’d probably worked his ass offhis whole life to put bread on the table,was being kept completely in the dark,on what was supposed to be the brightest dayof his daughter’s life.“um,” I gasped. “yeah. Yeah, I got that. yeah, I’ll leave a message. Have her call you, When she gets back.”We hung up and I sighed,vowing to never again answer the phonein a house I was taking care of,especially when the owners were in the middleof some grand eloping scheme.It just wasn’t worthwhile.

THE PEARLS WOULDN’T FILL MY STOMACHI was sitting at their kitchen table.They were leaving for their wedding,A two week eloping jaunt up to Bali.I would be watching over their house,Feeding their dog, that sort of thing.Before leaving the man, an old sea captain,Brought out his soon to be wife’s jewelry box.He opened it up and held this pearl necklaceIn front of my face.“hold this.”I reached out and held it.“oh, that’s heavy.”“that’s two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,”He said.I nearly puked on their kitchen table.I had maybe fifty bucks in my bank account,Fifty in my wallet,And a few bucks in change in pants’ pockets.“oh, and look at this one,” he said,Opening another little case.“black pearls?”“yeah, these are nice, huh?”I wondered what the hell was up,Why he was showing those to me.After exhibiting a few more,He shut the jewelry box and said,“these are coming with us.”I sat their at the table,Nodding and waiting for them to leave.I didn’t give a damn about their jewelry.I wouldn’t have stolen it, anyway.I was just interested as to what was in the pantry,Because I was very hungry.And then maybe I’d raid the liquor cabinet.That was about it.

HOUSE – SITTING FOR MILLIONARESI shut the fridge doorAnd walked back to the sofa, laughing.Earlier in the dayI’d been lying on the floorOf the surf shed I’d been living in.And I’d been damn happy there.But now in the eveningI was making ice cream sundaesWith strawberries and vodka and Irish cream,lounging around a beautiful houseIn a silk robe.There were vineyards all around me,And Monty the dog was lying in her bed,Surrounded by pink fleece blankets,Getting ready for her steak dinner.“ha!” I shouted. “what a joke it all is!”

THE BEST PLACE YETI spent a week there,On the floor of the surf shed.I wrote nearly seventy pages,Finished my book,And spent barely a dime,As I’d done some work forFood and board.Packing up my things,For a short move up north,I looked around the place,Always gauging my stay,Based on how much I’d written.“now,” I said out loud,In a farewell sorta way,“this has been the best place yet!”

A SUCKY LITTLE TOWN CALLED BUNBURYThere wasn’t much going on in the bar.A few death metal bands setting up,Playing a few songs,and then taking down their equipment.It wasn’t really my scene,Circle pits and ear-bleeding music.So I went outside and wandered down the street,In search of some late night food.I was always hungry in those days.I walked along the sidewalks of Bunbury,Passing groups of young, Aussie punk scenesters.“hey, a fuckin’ communist!” one girl shouted,As she passed me by.I wondered what the hell,Then remembered I was wearing my Vietnam shirt,Red with a bright yellow star in the middle.Some people didn’t get out that much.I walked further and a few guys yelled something at me.I nodded and raised my eyebrows and said, “sure.”A few feet away one turned and said,“oi, ya fuck! Ya don’t have to be antisocial!”I ducked into a Chinese place,Ordered a massive take away container of fried rice,Drowning it in soy sauceand eating it along the walk back.Back in the bar, the bands were still at it,And kids walked around booted each other in the ass,Or pretended to punch each other in the face.I looked around, chewed some more rice and thought,“well, this is Bunbury. Hmm. This place really sucks.”

HER WORLD OF FRIENDSWe were sitting out on a curb,Across the street from some club.Nothin’ else to do,When you didn’t have money for beers.Or as in their cases,Either didn’t drink,Or weren’t drinking because of the long drive home.So there we sat,Watching people walk past,Duck into alleys to puke or piss,Then come spinning out again,Sometimes just falling onto the sidewalks,And staying there.We were hoping to see a fight,Or something of any interest.Plenty of cute girls were going into the club,But then there’d be a cover charge,And a bunch of rules and regulations.No sandals, no hats, no t shirts, bullshit!Finally two girls approached us,One skinnier than the other.The skinnier one had black hair and braces,With an otherwise pretty face.“jesus,” I wondered. “how old are these girls?”The skinnier girl, Maxine, she asked us,“oh my god. Have you seen Hayden?”She looked from one of us to the other,Down the line. We all shook her heads.“well, he’s my ex. And he’s being a total cunt!”“well, all right then.”She looked at us incredulously.“no, he really is. wait- do you guys even know who I am?”We all shook our heads again.“oh my god! You don’t know me from MySpace? I have like, twenty three thousand friends!”“well,” I said. “it’s a big world out there. Lots of people. Even more than there are on MySpace.”

HE USED TO WORK FOR MEVinny was this guywho used to work for meBack in collegewhen I ran a franchise painting company.He was a real meat head,all the way.But I liked himbecause he was so big and stupidThat he scared the customersinto signing off on the jobs,and giving me good ratings.(they’d be deathly afraid that if they didn’t,Vinny might come back to their house,and none of them wanted that).A few years later I ran into him at a bar.He was there with this decent looking blonde,Who stood next to him like a dumb animalWaiting for instruction.“hey, fuckface,” he said to me. “still painting houses and exploiting college kids?”I liked his sense of humor.We’d always more or less gotten along.“naw,” I said. “I gave that up. What about yourself? I thought you’d be in jail by now.”His face became serious.He frowned his Neanderthal eyebrowsand lowered his voice and said,“hey, shut the fuck up. I just got out.”

SOFT KICKS IN THE STOMACHI was sitting there on a park bench,Pissing away the day.A short, brunette approached me,Jogging down the path.She looked damn good,In these tight shorts and a t shirt.“hey,” she said, passing by.I nodded to her and after she’d gone,I hissed, “jesus CHRIST!”Ten minutes later,This tall blonde came up.She was on roller blades.“hiya,” she squeaked, fading off.“oh, fuck!” I growled,socking one fist into the palm of the other.I was so lonesome for a girl at the time,That even the kind wordsfrom beautiful strangersfelt like soft kicks in the stomach.

ADDICTED TO THE ROADMy goddamn feet just wouldn’t stop.They couldn’t stop wandering.I’d go to one place, look around,Then want to move onto another.And since nothing was keeping me,Not a girl or a job or a lease,It was too easy not to just take off again.Boom!Pack up the bags and hit the road.Get on a bus or a train,or hitch hike across a country!The road was always there,Stretching out in front of me,Always an open invitation.I feared I’d never be able to settle down.I’d forever be this nomadic scribbler of words,Tapper of keys, composer of lines.But how long could I go?I’d run out of money,But was living comfortably on credit.My distaste for debt had diminished,In the shadow of my distaste for stillness.I had to be moving.I was addicted to the road.I felt most comfortableSitting on my packOn the side of the roadOut in the middle of no where,Thumb in the air,Waiting to go somewhere, anywhere.

LIFE IS A TALE THAT MUST BE TOLDWriting used to be this ritual for me.I had a routine,When I was treating it like a full time job.Wake in the morning,Eat breakfast, walk the dog,Get settled at the desk,check the emails, read the news online,and finally hit the keys.But now I don’t have a dog,I don’t have a desk,I eat whenever I’m hungry,When there’s food around.Get online to check the emails when I can,And write wherever I am.On buses or trains,by the side of the road,Sitting cross-legged in surf sheds,In beds or chairs or on the ground.It doesn’t fucking matterwhere or how or when,it just mattersthat the words go to the page.The words are like prisoners,released from the penitentiary of my mind.To form the story that has to be written.Life is a tale that must be told.

THE GREAT IDIOT DRINKERMy friend called me up on the phoneAt ten o’clock one morning.I was outside, working on my truck.“hey, man,” he said.“hey, what’s up?”“not much.”“what are you up to?”“ah, just drivin’ around. I’ve got a thirty rack of beer, and I’m just seein’ how far I make it.”“nice. Anyplace you’re headed?”“naw. Just all around North Carolina.”“well, that’s cool. Beautiful country down there, right?”“yeah, it’s nice.”There was a little silence,Then I heard him crack another beer.“okay,” he said. “I’ll keep ya posted.”“all right then. Take it easy.”“you know me.”I did know him.And I fuckin’ loved him.It brought a smile to my face,To know that he was out there,Just doing whatever he wanted,Letting nobody tell him what to do,Being his own man.Hours passed and I went on with my day,Working on my truck,Forgetting about his little journey.Then he called me up againat three o’clock in the afternoon.“still at it?” I asked, chuckling.He voice had changed a bitIt was rougher and louder and happier.“obviously! I’m over the halfway point!”“oh, nice. Where ya at now?”“I’m headed towards the beach. It’s about five hours in the other direction, But I decided I want to see the ocean. I’m in that ocean mood.”“that a good ocean mood or a bad one?”“I don’t know. Hup! Gotta go!”He hung up the phoneand I went back to grinding downa huge patch of rust above the left wheel well.I knocked off around five,Cleaned up and showered off.Later that night I went out to the bar,Met up with some friends.We were splashing back drinks, doing shots,Having a great time of it all.Somehow we got to talking about my friend,Wild stories of the past,Stealing delivery vans, police chases,That sorta thing.Then my phone rang.“oh! Look at this!” I shouted, over the music. “guess who, ha ha! It’s him!”I snuck outside the bar to a quieter spot,Answered the phone.“hey, hey! Still goin’ strong?”There were police sirens in the background,his voice was muffled by something,and he was slurring his speech.God bless him.“aw, man. ahmmin trouble. Bihh trouble.”“oh, shit, buddy. Anything I can do?”“not unleshher down heerin-““hey! Hey!” I heard a voice shout in the background. “put that phone down.”“aw shitsh, c’mon! I’m just calllin’ m’frenn!”“you can’t do that. you’re under arrest! Hang up that phone right now, Or you’ll be in more trouble.”I waited for a moment, cringing.It wasn’t a wise threat for the cop to make,But then he didn’t know my friend.He was drunk enough that it could go both ways.Either there would be a big altercation,Or maybe he’d already drank himself into submission.“allll rightttttt,” he moaned back to the cop.Then to me, “thuhh cop says I gotta, ummm, I gotta hanggg up the phone, or all, haha, Be in trubbbllle. Like omm nallready.”“all right, man. good times! gimme a call later and keep me posted.”I hung up my phone, skipped back to the bar,And ordered a round of shots.“here’s to my friend,” I cheered,“the great idiot drinker!”

THE ADAPTIVE RACEI found it very hard sometimes,When living out there in those sheds,Or sleeping on park benches,Or in the seats of trucks as they rolled along.Standing out in the rain, thumb in the air,Or in the desert sun,being harassed by flies.Out there on the road,I found it very hard,Not to just give up.Give up the traveling,Give up the writing,Hell, even give up the living.It all just seemed so goddamn hard at times.But it really wasn’t.It really wasn’t that hard at all.An ex con picked me up outside of Perth.He snorted a little rock as we drove along,And told me about robbing banks, shooting cops,and the many horrors of Fremantle Prison.“jesus,” I said. “that sounds like hell.”“it was hell. but man is highly adaptive, see? being caged in a cell, shitting in a tin can, being herded into a tiny courtyard to pass the days with fifty other guys in steady 130 degree heat...”“fuck.”“see, you hear about something, and you think you could never handle it, but then it happens to you and you do handle it. you get used to it.”I gave it some thought.The man had a point.And that’s how it went with cons and free men alike.People got used to their cells,Just like they got used to their day jobs,Their fifty weeks of workFor their two weeks of vacation.They got used to their wealth,And then when it went away,They got used to their poverty.They got used to their comfortable lives,Their kids and their cats and dogs,Making the money and then paying the bills.Everything coming and going.Then they died and got used to death.Me, I just got used to change.

SEEK NOT TO FIND“Seek not to find,”he said to me,as we drove along out therein the desert at dusk.“and in that way, you’ll find what you do not seek.”I looked over at him, frowned, and said,“well, what the fuck does that mean?”He laughed hard for a few moments,His body shaking and bouncing the seat.“I have no clue, ho ho! I read it somewhere, in some stupid book, And I’ve been saying it to people ever since. You’re the first one who’s ever called me out, ho ho!”

THE WORDS OF THE TRUCKERSIt was late at night,Past eleven.I was in a roadhouse in Ceduna,And had been there for nearly ten hours.The truckers came in and out,Ordering food and mumbling their hellos and goodbyes.One fat, bald man sat down to a big meal.He’d been there a while,Having had to stop for the night,Due to his load.Oversized load trucks weren’t allowed to driveOnce the sun went down.I’d been watching him on and off,For want of anything else to do.Then a wiry little bastard hobbled in,Went up to the food counter and ordered.The fat man watched him intently.When the wiry man turned to sit down,To wait for his food to come up.He saw the fat man, smiled and said,“well George! I thought you’s was up north somewheres!”

THE MAGIC WORD“are you sure you don’t want any water?”she asked me, after I’d spent plenty of time,finding and then orderingthe cheapest thing on the menu.“naw, I’m all right.”“are you sure?” she laughed. “it’s free.”“oh. Really?”“yeah. The water’s free.”“well then, yeah. I’d love some water. Thirsty as hell. Thanks.”

THE LIARClayton came in,Opened up that yapper of his,Told me that back home,Which for him was Kansas City,That he’d go in and out of groups of friends.It didn’t surprise me.He was a weird little fucker,Sweaty and twisted and twitching.“but this one group,” he said,“was entirely comprised of liars. We’d all just come home- I mean, we all lived together. But yeah, we’d all just come home, Sit around the kitchen table And tell each other lies.”“oh yeah?” I asked.“yeah. We’d go in a circle, Around the table. We’d just look each other in the eyes and tell lies.”After saying this, he stood there,Smiling and blinking.He was a strange little turd, Clayton.But I had him figured out.I knew his kind.“you know what, Clayton?” I said.“what?”“I think you’re full of shit!”

THE LONG SLOW ROADThe day was going slow.I’d gotten two short rides,And had been soaked by a downpour in the desert.The rain had just drilled down into me,The winds cutting through my clothes.Now I was in Port Wakefield,Some podunk town of 600 people.Two gas stations and a bakery.Car after car, truck after truck rolled past.The sun passed in between clouds.I swatted at flies and dried my clothes and my bags.A touring coach pulled over across the road,And fifteen little chinamen got out,Pulled their cocks from their pantsAnd pissed directly towards me.“aw, what the hell?” I grumbled.After some time a little girl road past,Her mother in the driver’s seat.The little girl waved, gave me a thumb’s up,And disappeared down the road.Finally a car pulled over.Two guys who looked to be in their thirties,Sharp beards and sharp sunglasses on their faces.“where ya headed?”“Port Augusta.”“we’re goin’ right at the split.”“well, thanks anyway guys.”They rolled off down the road.“fuckin’ A.”More trucks passed.More cars.I saw a backpacker van approach,All covered with spray paint,Sticking out like a sorer thumb than mine.Two cute blondes,Their smiling faces following me as they passed by.“aw, come on!” I snarled,Watching them fade into the distance,Hoping I’d see break lights and a u turn.Nothing.The wind picked up and I tossed on my sweatshirt.“well, this is a fuckin’ day. a long, slow day.”

“FUCK YOU,” FROM ADELAIDEI was in Adelaide,Plotting my way out.I had to find a bus station,To get out of the city to a highway,To throw my thumb in the air.It was all routine,All part of the hitching game.I kept walking.There was a guy in front of me.After half a block he stopped,Turned around and yelled,“hey! Fuck you, MAN!!”I blew right past him,Saying nothing.But at the same time,I understood where he was coming from.And the line had a good ring.“yeah,” I said to myself.“yeah! Fuck YOU, man!”

HER NAME WAS NICKI BUT SHE WENT BY SHORTYShe pulled over and I hissed,“it’s about fuckin’ time.”I hadn’t been waiting all that long,But sometimes waiting at all could be too long.“where you goin’?” she asked me.“west,” I said, a silly grin on my face.It always made me smile to be going west.“as far as you’re goin’, if that’s all right.”“yeah, I saw you standing here before.”“yeah, I’ve been standing here a while.”“how long?” she asked, not really caring.“long enough to see the sights, ha.”“yeah, the sights. All the sights of Horsham.”I put my big pack in the back of her ute,And snuck my little bag in below my legs.We drove off into the afternoon sun.“you mind if I smoke?” she asked.“huh?”“does smoking bother you?”“naw, no. of course not.”“do you smoke?”“yeah, sure.”“you wanna cigarette?”“yeah, okay.”She passed me a cig and I lit it up.We drove off towards the west,Smoke in our lungs, the sun overhead.

Thursday, April 10, 2008

With hitch hiking,you learned after some timethat it wasn't an art.It wasn't a science, either.There was nothing to figure out,no equation to solve,no technique to master,even though you sometimes wished there was.Hitch hiking was just a waiting game.Putting your thumb in the air,tossing shit at the wall,hoping that sooner rather than later,someone kind enough or bored enough,would pull over and pick your bum ass up.

It was a beautiful, daunting thing,to open up that map of Australia,spread it out on the floor,and gaze at an entire continenti was about to cross!A whole mass of land,only a few significant cities,the desert and the salt fields."well," I said, eyes burning,a big smile smeared across my face."this might take a few days,or it might take my life!"

There was a lot of sitting on my assin those days.A lot of park benches,A lot of thinking.The world,I couldn't figure the fucker out.I watched people go by.Guys banging on store signsand kicking at windows,pouring cans of paint into gas tanks,fighting in the streets.The girls, crying or laughing,dressing up like whoresand walking down the sidewalks,clumsy in their short skirts and their high heels.And there were always the rats nearby,rummaging for food,doing their thing,just making it.And the moon was in the sky,the stars blinking down.The world was this big,incomprehensible thing.But then, it always was.

Sunday, April 6, 2008

Half a block outside my hostel there was this brick.It was just lying there on the sidewalk,every day and every night."hell," I grumbled, sweating past it one night,on my way home from the bars."if somebody doesn't move that fuckin' brick, some drunk fool is gonna stop some night, pick it up and put it through a window, right where it belongs."I walked a few feet further,looked back, then forced myself to keep going."ho ho!" I laughed. "and that drunk fool will probably be me!"

I was moving my few thingsinto my new apartment.A guy I'd met beforeon some wild night a few years back,he was living there too.He came up to me as I walked along and said,"listen, I don't like anybody here.""oh, yeah?""yeah, you should know that. I don't like anybody, anywhere.""all right.""and that includes you.""sure, whatever. I'll keep that in mind."He watched me as I kept making runs,back and forth,between my truck and my room,moving in a lamp or a book shelf.I wondered what he was after.Maybe he thought he was the first personI'd ever met,who didn't like other people,who didn't like me.I looked at him and laughed."oh, it's just a big world of fools!"

About Me

Jackson Warfield was born in a small town in New Hampshire on a dead end road. He has traveled widely and worked a variety of jobs, from digging ditches to walking dogs. He writes for entertainment, his own and others.